Today's Us
by fuyusarah
Summary: Her collégienne self might have rolled her eyes at the irritatingly cheerful scene, and complained about the sun damaging her flawless complexion. But while today's Chloé did still make sure to be wearing her sunblock, the words that left her glossy lips were, "Lovely day for sketching outside."


The skirt of Chloé's white sundress fluttered as she entered the park. Paired with her lustrous ponytail and her dazzling charisma, her radiance rivaled that of the sun in the blue sky above. Truly, it was such a waste for her to be staying indoors in dull repetitive conversation with stuffy rich people. Even the ever-cheerful Adrien had looked positively bored, and when he slipped out through the balcony, Chloé took it as her cue to escape, too.

Around her, the park was as lively as ever. There was the vendor who had been selling balloons since she was fifteen. And there was that merry-go-round—recently replaced—full of giggling children. And, oh, there was that wafting smell of the fresh pastries from the Tom & Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie across the street. Her collégienne self might have rolled her eyes at the irritatingly cheerful scene, and complained about the sun damaging her flawless complexion. But while today's Chloé did still make sure to be wearing her sunblock, the words that left her glossy lips were, "Lovely day for sketching outside."

Chloé scanned the park, easily spotting her target. As expected, the vermillion of Nathanäel's hair stood out in the comfortable green of the park, and she felt the pull of it like a bee to honey.

(Technically, bees were the ones who created honey, however.)

(But, between the two of them, the one who created anything sweet was him.)

(Chloé really didn't know where she was going with that metaphor.)

Nathanäel sat on the grass under the shade, back to the tree trunk and his ever-present sketchpad propped on his knees. His hair, as usual, fell over one of his eyes as he drew.

Chloé wore wedge sandals with her outfit today. The soles were quiet against the soft grass underneath, but Nathanäel looked up as if she had stiletto heels click-clacking against marble. Brightening instantly, he removed his jacket and laid it onto the grass beside him.

"Hey!" he greeted once she stepped into the shade of his tree. He patted his jacket in invitation.

Ugh, see? Always sweet, this boy. It would also have been annoying, if she hadn't completely fallen in love with it.

As she sat down, Nathanäel combed his bangs aside. It immediately fell back over his eyes.

"You look nice today," he said.

Chloé raised an eyebrow. "Did you really expect anything otherwise?"

"Never," he chuckled. "Not that I don't welcome the visit, but what are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be at that fancy luncheon?"

Chloé shrugged and inspected her fingernails. Nathanäel, accurately interpreting the dismissal, rolled his eyes and turned his attention to his sketchpad.

(The truth was: Chloé could have gone to Mathilde's luncheon with Nathanäel. It might have been more tolerable and Nathanäel didn't have any pressing appointments. But the little note in her invitation—"Bring your mysterious artist friend if he's available, okay? Teehee!"—rubbed her the wrong way. Too bad, Mathilde could find someone else to draw her like one of his French girls, if Chloé had any say in it. And she totally had a say in it. Obviously.)

The scratch of Nathanäel's pencil joined the sounds of the park as he purposefully skimmed it over paper. He cocked his head to the side for a moment. The familiar curtain of his hair to slightly swayed with the breeze.

She reached up to tuck it behind his ear.

"Thanks," he said without even looking at her.

"Sure," she answered as his hair fell right back over his eyes.

Chloé pursed her lips together. That was the one thing that got to her nerves whenever she watched Nathanäel draw. Not the fact that his attention was elsewhere, no—the way his eyes sharpened in focus was _mesmerizing_ , in fact. Instead, it was his hair. She liked his hair, she really did, except for how it was always in his face, how he had to keep turning his head and slouch in a decidedly improper posture just to see what he was drawing, and how, even at times when he tied his hair back, that fringe was stubbornly flopping over his eyes. She grew up upholding the merits of well-groomed hair; why couldn't her boyfriend do the same?

Nathanäel tilted his head yet again. Chloé tried to exercise patience.

She was never really good at exercising patience.

Nathanäel only threw her a quick glance when she rose up to her knees beside him. But when she pulled the high quality elastic of her own ponytail and locks of silky gold tumbled down her shoulders, he twisted around to gape at her with widened eyes.

"Ch-Chloé?"

Her only response was to take hold of his shoulders to turn him back around, then tilt his head to the left as far as it could go.

"Uh, what are you—"

"Sit still."

"But—"

"Shush!"

"So bossy," he snorted.

"You love it," she countered as she combed her fingers through his bangs.

The tips of his ears turned red.

With a grin, Chloé set to work. Starting from behind his ear, she created three sections. Crossed one over the other then the same for the third, added more to each section—and again. In almost no time, a headband braid was running across the top of Nathanäel's head, keeping his bangs away from his forehead. As she gathered the ends of his hair, she realized that in a few seconds, she would have one less reason to be touching his hair this afternoon. Still, Chloé wasn't about to let him to get a crick in the neck.

She took her own hair tie and secured his hair into a small poof of a ponytail at his nape.

" _Et voilà!_ " she puffed in triumph. It was a pretty good braid: secure but not too tight, showing off the natural volume and hue of his hair. As to be expected from Chloé Bourgeois! Her fingertips found his chin easily and she leaned over to inspect her handiwork—

"All right, let me see—"

and very promptly forgot how to breathe.

 _Oh._

 _Oh wow._

She was no stranger to the color of Nathanäel's eyes. She knew the exact shocking shade of them, because of course she did. But to see them both, unobstructed, in the sunlight, and looking at her like _that_?

Well.

Far be it from anyone to say that Chloé was any less than _shook_.

She dropped back to her seat beside him. Cleared her throat. Tucked her own long hair behind her ear and looked everywhere but him. If she did, she'd probably grab his face and— and— and then his braid would be ruined, and—

"Chloé?" came his voice.

"Y-yeah?" failed hers.

There was a soft, warm, sweet pressure at her temple. And then: "Thanks."

Her younger self might gagged at how Chloé's cheeks were doing a mighty fine impression of twin tomatoes, just because of clear turquoise eyes and a honeyed whisper of affection on her skin. But today's Chloé, who had grown and fought and gained and lost and learned and loved?

She smiled, leaned her head on his shoulder and whispered, "Sure."


End file.
